There Will Come a Time
by wrterlife
Summary: All throughout Sherlock's life he's been visited periodically by a mysterious man, never speaking, just watching for a fleeting instance, but things have changed. The visits are becoming more frequent and the lack of explanation is driving Sherlock mad. Everything begans to change that fateful night when the man spoke to him.


Sherlock sat straight up in his bed, as cold sweat forming above his brow. _The man was back, _this time more in more detail than he could remember previously. There he was, just standing there in the alleyway behind the flat Sherlock shared with John. A smirk tugged at the corners of the man's lips as he stared at Sherlock, and he _spoke. The man spoke. _In all his recollection of seeing this man, never once had he spoken to Sherlock.

"You're a very special person, Holmes, but time is nearly up."

"Of course I'm special," Sherlock muttered into the dark. "There isn't a single person in the whole of Scotland yard that I haven't outsmarted!" But still he wondered _What did he mean? Time is nearly up. _Sherlock wasn't one for superstition explaining to John that superstition was "just a trick in the human mind induced by needless," and that he "needn't be bothered with it." Still he wondered. Why him? Why now?

He attempted vainly to fall back into an undisturbed sleep, but it would not come. For what felt like hours he raked through his mind, looping the same facts over and over again, without any progress toward a logical digital display on his nightstand read 3:06. Sherlock got up. He walked into the living room and picked up his violin. Irritated and bored, he pulled the bow quick across the strings. If he played long enough, John would come downstairs and tell him to knock it off… which happened to be precisely what Sherlock wanted.

Sure enough, less than 5 minutes later John came crashing into the living room, still half asleep, creating an even greater racket.

"What the bloody hell are you doing in here! Playing that damn thing at 3 in the morning. What's wrong with you!"

"It's 3:11 actually," Sherlock informed him.

"Who bloody cares Sherlock!" Then his tone softened. "Are you alright Sherlock? I mean really alright. You're sleep has gotten worse than usual, you're barely eating, and the cases we've taken on lately just aren't interesting you in the same way that they usually do."

Sherlock scowled. This was not at all how he had wanted their conversation to go. He hated when John did this, trying to care for him, when he could clearly take care of himself. He wasn't John's problem and neither was the man who visited him.

"Of course I'm fine," he replied coldly and returned to his room, closing the door. He waited until he heard John's door shut as well before sneaking back into the living room and retrieving his laptop. He stayed awake until dawn researching the strange man, and coming to the all the same dead ends he normally reached. _I don't know what I expected, but theres got to be more, there's always more. _

When he finally heard John making noise in the kitchen he considered it safe to come out of his room.

"I made you a cuppa if you want it, and theres toast on the counter." Sherlock didn't say anything but gratefully took the tea and nibbled the corners of his toast as he sulked moodily hoping John would notice him. He got what he wanted.

"Look Sherlock, I don't know what your problem is lately, but we've got a very important case going on involving a Chinese crime syndicate, and you're going to start looking bad around the police force if you keep up with this little mood of yours." Sherlock cleared his plate of the remaining food and began to pull on his jacket, waiting to leave.

The case was truly brilliant. Sherlock, perhaps against Lestrade's wishes, had broken into the flat of Soo Lin, a murdered man involved in the case. He searched the home and found nothing of interest, nothing to indicate any suspicion. In fact, the place was wiped clean of all evidence. Another dead end, except… Suddenly he was pushed from behind! An intruder in Soo Lin's house.

He wrestled with the man and nearly had him. Just then he slipped from Sherlock's grasp and with cat-like reflexes, sprung out the second story window.

"Dammit!" Just then John walked in with Lestrade and the pitiful assistant called Anderson. The case was running thin and more evidence had just slipped through their fingers. Literally.

Back at the flat, Sherlock was building a web. He had pinned up all known suspects, victims, and members linked to the gang. All newspaper articles, reports, documents that he may or may not have stolen from the PD. He pinned them up and began linking them together, searching for the key, narrowing it down. Hours passed around him, the sun sank, John came and went, still he worked. Immersed to the point where nothing could break his focus on the wall in front of him.

When he finally tore himself from the work, it was nearly midnight, and leftover takeout was sitting on the counter, with a note saying it was for him. He didn't bother to touch it and instead headed for his room, but he didn't wish to sleep either. He thought about the strange man again.

Sherlock was not disturbed by the fact that this man was a stranger, quite the opposite in fact. He had known this man for as long as he could remember, in a sense. He remembered being a very young child and looking out of his bedroom window down onto the street. There he was that same man with the same childish smirk pulling at his mouth.

Another time when he recalled clearly, it was nearly christmas and strange things had been happening all around London. Snowmen coming to life, aliens flying around London. It was all nonsense of course. Sherlock, at the age of 12, knew he still couldn't explain the fact that the strange man visited him much more often this year, as much as twice in just a few weeks.

These instances where sherlock met the man in person were rare, and they had never spoken. Often Sherlock would be indoors and just happen to see him out on the streets always just around the corner, just a fleeting glance. Despite his rare visits, he wasn't a stranger to Sherlock, and favored frequenting his dreams every few months. And so Sherlock lived his life, and he grew up, and he became, well, Sherlock Holmes. All the while the man watched. And in all this time, the man never seemed to change, nor did his features ever differ. It was constant. Same tweed jacket, same suspenders, same bowtie fastened around his neck, and strangely enough, the man occasionally donned a fez.

He had become a constant in Sherlock's life, popping up every so often and checking in, so constant, that it had almost ceased bothering him. _Almost. _Then all at once it stopped. For nearly a year the man was absent from Sherlock's life. It was like having a tiny hole in your clothes. It's barely noticeable but once you notice it, it is suddenly the only thing you notice. Thus was what it was like not having the man occasionally pop up in his dream. Then no more than a month ago, the unthinkable had happened. He had come back. Only now, he wouldn't leave. Constantly haunting Sherlocks dreams, always seemingly right around every street corner, just out of sight, and Sherlock was beginning to fall apart because of it.

Finally his mind began to tire, and despite all his efforts to stay awake, he was falling into a deep sleep. He was nearly there, teetering on the brink of consciousness and darkness, when he heard it. The unmistakable sound of whirring and engines seemed to escape the alleyway. Immediately wide awake, Sherlock knew this could only mean one thing. _Him._


End file.
